Chapter 32

DEZMOND

Dez handed the waitress his menu then watched her walk away. He relaxed in his chair as he turned
his attention to Spring. She surprised him when she agreed to go to lunch with him even though he
showed up unannounced at her job. But the kiss she greeted him with surprised him more.

"So," he fingered the condensation on his glass, "you like kissing."

Spring's head whipped up so fast he was certain she would feel an ache later. Her eyes fluttered and
she looked away. It was such an innocent response to such a bold act. (A delightful mystery, Spring is.)

"I'm sorry about that. It seems I keep..."

"Keep what?"

Spring looked down at something, maybe her napkin, but Dez waited for her response. He sat forward.

Spring covered her face with her hand then sighed. "Honestly, I have no real excuse. I am sorry."

Dez waved his hand dismissively. "Don't be. I enjoy kissing you. I hope to do it often...but that depends,
I suppose."

"On?" she asked.

Dez relaxed back in his seat. He could see the concern in her eyes so he didn't make her wait for his
response. But he wanted to. "On if you want to continue the 'No personal info' clause. I like you, Spring.
I want to see more of you, get to know you. Will you allow me to know you?"

He watched as she seemed to go over what he said in her head. She looked away a few times but
when it seemed as if she came to some kind of resolution, Spring looked at him. He waited about as



long as the suspense lover in him wanted to make her wait earlier, but clearly, he wasn't holding the
cards in this relationship. He rarely held the cards.

Spring extended her hands to him, avoiding their glasses on the table. "My name is Spring Annalisa
Lafayette of the New Orleans Lafayette's."

She smiled.

A low chuckle came from Dez as he took hold of Spring's hand. "Dezmond Rey, of the DC Rey's." He
squeezed her hand just a little before releasing it. "So, is your family one of the old prestigious ones in
The Quarter?

"Old maybe...prestigious?" she chuckled, "...maybe in spirit."

"I would have never guessed you were from the south. I haven't heard even a hint of an accent. Do you
know French?"

"No, you won't find the stereotypical southern drawl there. They have a unique way of speaking," she
informed him. Spring used her finger to hook some stray hair behind her ear but kept hold of the hair
and started twisting it in her fingers. "Most folks don't speak French regularly. I don't speak it."

Dez didn't fail to notice the uncomfortable look on her face. He didn't like it but was curious enough to
continue on the topic of her origin. "Did you like growing up there, in New Orleans? I bet it was
beautiful."

Spring looked away from him and gazed around the restaurant. When she found his eyes again, she
said, "I can tell you that even as a young girl, I felt as if everywhere I went had some kind of story to
tell. I was intrigued by it all but...I grew up fast and one day, it was just another city to me." She
shrugged. "Where did you grow up?"



The waitress and a server chose that moment to appear with their lunch. They placed a sizzling plate of
chicken, cheese, and veggies in front of Spring, and his club sandwich with fries in front of him. He
waited for the restaurant staff to leave before he started to recite his origins to her.

"I grew up in upstate New York. My father's family hails from Puerto Rico." He traced his drink coaster
with his finger. "My father joined the US military, and during a layover found my mother during a town's
Wheat Fair in Kansas of all places. She says that she was immediately attracted to him. My father has
suggested that she was more into the uniform but he won her over in the end. They found their
American dream through investing. My mom and dad are more by the book but my extended family are
rebels, so my childhood could be described as well-rounded."

Dezmond unwrapped his silverware and placed the cloth napkin in his lap. He took one of the paper
napkins from the dispenser and lifted the two half slices of pickles off his plate and rolled them in the
napkin. He placed the rolled pickles off to the side of his plate. When he looked up, Spring was
regarding him with what he can only describe as a clinical curiosity. Like he was an experiment in a lab.

(Was it the pickles or the story?)

"What about your parents?" Dez asked, looking at his food. "How was your childhood?"


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